


Vocation

by obstinatrix



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blowjobs, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Heatwave, M/M, The Game Is Afoot, Victorian Pornography Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 18:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Nothing is as miserable as London in midsummer. Watson is not a fan of physical exertion in hot weather. Holmes attempts to convince him otherwise, and succeeds, naturally.





	Vocation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



> mistyzeo gave me several prompts, one of which was 'sloppy blowjobs', which this is. Sort of.

Any schoolboy will tell you that heat's natural trajectory is upward, but I venture he could not fully appreciate the fact until he had spent a summer afternoon in an upstairs flat in central London. It was only June, but the air in our rooms in Baker Street felt heavy as molasses, the muggy warm weather seeming to press in on us from all sides. I tossed my newspaper aside with a groan. "What have we done to deserve this?"

"Summer comes every year, Watson," remarked my companion mildly -- and, I might add, not entirely truthfully, for we live in England, after all.

"And every year I resent it," I muttered. When I was a boy in the north, in Border country, summer could be relied upon never to outstay its welcome: we would have three afternoons of unaccustomed sunshine, perhaps, and then a strong rain would wash away the residue of heat. In Afghanistan, of course, there had been an entirely new level of unpleasantness wreaked upon us, but that was the far east, and to be expected. Lengthy summers in London -- not three hundred miles south of where I was born -- seemed entirely more unreasonable, and never failed to leave me disgruntled and irritable.

"You are an odd duck," said Sherlock Holmes, with a certain amount of fondness. He rolled his shoulders languidly against the back of his chair, the motion tugging the open shirt collar wider at his throat, displaying a pale promontory of clavicle. In deference to the heat, he had dispensed with his dressing gown and waistcoat, and the curve of his neck shone faintly with sweat.

That was another thing I disliked about summer weather: Holmes would loll about in this fashion, half-clothed, and peacock himself most brazenly in my direction, full knowing that I could not bear to touch him in this heat, even while I longed to. I shot him a glance from narrowed eyes, and the upward curve of his mouth betrayed his cruel intentions: of course, the sinuous stretches were for my benefit. Holmes has the most edibly attractive neck and throat I've ever seen on a man, and by God, does he know it.

"You needn't preen like that," I told him curtly. "I'm very well aware of your many and varied charms, but you won't convince me to lay a hand on you until this infernal heat breaks. I'm sweating enough as it is."

To my mild alarm (and, I must admit, excitement), the curve of Holmes's mouth intensified, until it was a true grin, half-mocking, entirely pleased with itself.

"Ah, but doctor," he said -- and as he spoke, his book was set aside; he slid from his chair to his knees on the floor in a single feline motion -- "whoever asked _you_ to lay a hand upon _me_? On the contrary, I think you ought to keep your hands on the arms of your chair, where they belong." The grin turned feral. "Let's see if you can."

"Holmes --" The space between my chair and his took him less than two seconds to cross on his knees, and even as his hands settled on my thighs, I glanced over my shoulder towards the sitting room door.

As ever, he read my mind. "I locked the door an hour ago, when you returned from the tobacconist's."

"You schemer," I accused, and he laughed outright, tossing his head. Sweat prickled at his temples; the humidity had undone some of the effect of the brilliantine in his hair, so that a single dark lock threatened to fall across his forehead. My fingers ached to touch it --

"Of course," Holmes cut in, and caught my hand before I had fully realised my intention to lift it. "Needs must, my dear doctor. Now: hands on the arms of your chair, as I said. Unless you think you can't?"

His mouth was slightly parted, the wet inside just visible against white teeth. His silver-shot eyes looked blue grey in this light, liquid, and I felt the familiar, _desired_ heat surging to my prick at the closeness of him, how beautiful he was and how infuriating. I squeezed my hands around the chair arms and _hmmed_ in my throat, a contented sound, to let him know I was beginning to enjoy this, whether or not my words belied the fact. "Why don't you investigate, detective?"

  
He snorted. "John, that was terrible. We aren't in _The Strand_ now."

"I wouldn't put a quip like that in _The Strand_." His thumbs had drifted to the insides of my thighs and were now kneading there slowly, massaging the muscle. The heat of his skin was palpable through the light summer trousers I was wearing, but increasingly it was ceasing to be at all uncomfortable. My spine prickled with fresh sweat, but that, too, no longer felt entirely unpleasant. I arched my back slightly, as if it might coax his hands upward. "I'm not in the habit of writing pornography," I managed, although I could hear the breathlessness creeping into my voice.

"A pity," Holmes said. He shot me a look from beneath his eyelashes, one that could only be described as flirtatious, and the motion of his hands changed direction, quite fluidly. Now, he rubbed in an up-and-down motion, approaching the juncture of my thighs only to slide away again towards my knees. My cock was by now entirely conscious of his proximity, and had thickened considerably within the confinement of my trews; with every pass of his hands, it grew a little harder. I shifted, fingers clenching on the arms of the chair, and Holmes smiled, letting his fingers graze -- barely -- the base of my cockstand. I hissed through my teeth, involuntarily, and the look on his face at that was entirely too smug. He looked quite a proud little trollop, I thought, kneeling there between my knees, and I decided to tell him as much and see if it knocked the wind out of his sails.

"I _could_ , of course," I informed him, "write the most depraved smut about you, if I put my mind to it. I'm sure _The Pearl_ would love to hear what a wanton strumpet is Sherlock Holmes, when there's the promise of a prick in his pretty mouth."

Damn him, he only laughed -- although, in truth, I had not expected anything else. I could see the pupils spreading dark into his irises, his shoulders squaring with pleasure, for Holmes _does_ love to be used in this fashion, and makes no apologies for it. "Is that your first attempt, dear? It's rather good." He turned his face, and I gasped at the sudden pressure of his cheek against my trapped prick, a slow, heavy swell of pleasure as he rubbed his face against me like a cat. "Do go on. I want to know more about this shameless invert and his perverse pleasures."

"So do I," I growled. Holmes was still nuzzling me, and I lifted my hips, pressing myself against him in an invitation I felt was quite obvious. His cheeks were flushed, the long curve of his throat gleaming now with sweat, and the sight made me pulse with want, my cock slicking itself in my drawers. I would not move my hands; he would not have that satisfaction of me. But Holmes only smiled at me placidly, his eyelashes dipping. His breath was warm and damp against me when he spoke.

"Watson," he purred, "tell me a story."

Understanding struck home like a blow, and my gut clenched with heat. "Oh, God." I drew a slow breath. He smiled at me slowly, pleased, and turned his face just enough to mouth at my shaft very lightly, his lips dragging feather-light across the distended fabric. His hair had entirely wilted free of its brilliantine now, and my fingers itched to sink into it, to pull him close against me by the back of the skull. But those were not the rules of this particular game; Holmes had laid those out himself for our mutual entertainment. I squeezed my eyes shut, wet my dry lips, and sought for words.

"Sherlock Holmes," I said faintly, "has -- the most beautiful hands."

"Oh?" The hands in question drifted smoothly up my thighs and over my pelvis, framing the bulge at my crotch, and I shivered, feeling the shadow of their touch like an impression of heat on my straining prick.

"Perfect hands. He unbuttons my trousers without the slightest fumble, even when -- even when my prick is struggling for its freedom."

Holmes stifled a laugh in his throat, but mercifully suit action to my words all the same, and I exhaled heavily with relief as he unbuttoned me, spreading the placket of my trousers wide. His eyes, when I looked down to meet them, were warm and expectant, and I summoned all my will to continue.

"He -- unlaces my drawers -- "

"Mm…"

"And he -- oh -- kisses the shaft of my cockstand with his hot wet mouth --"

"'Ike 'is?"

"Exactly --" We were both half-laughing now, which was an interesting sensation combined with the slide of his damply parted mouth up the underside of my prick as he kissed me, his free hand cradling me against his face. His teeth grazed me on an upward stroke, and I gasped for breath, needing more of him, my forearms trembling with the effort of keeping still.

"His clever mouth was made to suck cock," I got out, though my face burned, and was rewarded with the blush that spread swift across his fine high cheekbones; the short breath startled out of him.

"Made for it?" I was gratified to hear the trembling in his voice before he pressed his lips to the crown of my prick, mouthing at the pearl of pre-ejaculate there.

"Made for it," I said, with feeling. My chest was fairly heaving with my breaths at this juncture, my whole body trembling finely. I wanted to take him by the back of the head and pull him down onto my prick; I wanted to press my thumb into his mouth and open his jaw wide to take me; but Holmes was breathing heavily against the head of my cockstand, awaiting my instructions, and I could not disappoint him.

"He takes me in my mouth as if there's nothing he'd rather taste," I told him raggedly. "He sucks me deep into his throat; he rolls his tongue against me -- he swallows my cock into his very throat -- _God_ , Holmes --"

The groan Holmes made around me was inarticulate and reverberated right to my bones, right to the core of me. His mouth was stretched wide around me, obscene; the next moment, his hands were on my wrists, guiding me, thank _God_ , to cradle his head, and I half-sobbed in relief at the invitation, sinking my fingers into his hair and tugging firmly.

Our game was at an end, and not a moment too soon. I was leaking copiously, my bollocks drawn up tight and full with wanting him, and when I slid one hand to Holmes's pale throat, I fancied I could feel the pressure of myself cradled deep in the clutch of it. I pulled his hair, gasping, and Holmes moaned around me, meeting my eyes with his own: the expression on his face begged to be taken, and I shivered, hitching my hips against his face, lost in the feel of him.

I am _not_ in the habit of writing pornography, but I had not lied to Holmes: sometimes, I do think he was made to suck my cock. He always liked to be used, to be guided; I withdrew from his mouth and watched his eyelashes flutter wantonly against his cheeks, his lips chasing blindly after me. I could barely resist a moment before I let him catch me, but God, how beautiful he was as he sucked at my crown, pushing his tongue into my foreskin and opening his silver eyes wide to watch me, his face completely unshuttered. I palmed his jaw, guiding myself into his mouth again, and he let me; moaned for it; rubbed his tongue wetly against my shaft, heedless of the wetness spilling down his chin, a combination of pre-ejaculate and his own saliva.

He groaned something wordless, but I knew the intonation: _Watson_ , or possibly _John_ ; either way, the meaning was the same. He wanted me to fuck him, and by God I was ready to oblige him. I steadied myself with the hand still fisted in his hair, and with the other I petted his face, his smooth throat, his swollen mouth.

  
"Holmes," I breathed, as I began to thrust into his mouth, shallow, careful thrusts at first, setting up the age-old rolling rhythm between us. "Holmes -- " He sucked at me, and I shuddered, the wet slide of my cock in and out of his mouth increasing in pace. I closed my eyes, let my head tip back, and the words seemed to wrench themselves out of my raw throat without any impetus from me: "Holmes is such a beautiful whore for me, my lovely boy on his knees. He touches himself when he sucks me, he loves it so."

A sharp cry from the very pit of Holmes's chest, vibrating through my pelvis, and then I could feel the jerking motion of his arm as he obeyed his narrator; could hear the slick sound of his fist working his own hard cock. His attentions to my own prick were increasingly erratic, the jerks of my hips growing faster and more urgent by the second, and the motions of his hand echoed my thrusts, shivering towards oblivion. I gritted my teeth, my fist clenching over-hard in his hair, and then I could no longer help myself: I hauled him forward with both hands and fucked him hard in a frenzy of shivers as I spent myself in his mouth, feeling him groan around me as I came. It wasn't until I drew back that I felt the limpness in his frame and realised that he, too, had met his little death, there on the floor between my knees.

I pulled back carefully, conscious as ever of having forgotten myself and used him too severely in my final moments, but the look on his face was slack and dazed with pleasure, and he laid his cheek at once on my thigh and purred in his throat. I settled a hand on his head, smoothing out the abused dark hair.

For a little time, we sat there in silence, listening to each other's breathing as it slowed. The room was still abysmally hot, but Holmes had performed his task admirably: I found that I no longer particularly cared.

"Well," I said, at length, "perhaps I have found a second -- or should I say, a third vocation?"

"I don't even care for your second," Holmes grumbled contentedly, his cheek still pillowed on my leg.. "Best continue with what you were trained in, old boy."

"Brat," I said, tugging his hair, but he only smiled without even opening his eyes.


End file.
